On the Breath of Ossë {Sirion, Summer 538 F.A.} [Mithiel]

Celleth drew her legs up on the anvil to watch as Ruivo worked; to watch the ripple of each muscle as he hammered, and way his shoulder blades moved beneath skin. Each movement the smith before her made was expected; always he struck in the same even motion.

“So this is where you have been.”

Almost unheard to Ruivo as he hammered were the words; just another comment from Celleth. Of course had been here; all the day he had been here and she knew it, and he was confused by the source though his hands were busy at work.Celleth however turned, giving Mithiel a look from the tip of her tawny head to her feet. Feet which she could not even see for the lengthy hem of her dress which was dragging across the dirty floor.

“Ruivo, I will have you know, that you can not just get on a ship and leave when you make a promise.”

A slight glance behind him, Ruivo turned halfway toward Celleth, his blind eye shielding sight of Mithiel. The dark haired smith maid was lifting a brow at Ruivo. Ruivo, however, had seen enough of Celleth's lofty expressions and he turned back to his work swiftly; the rod wrapped around the horn of the anvil and curling into a link as he returned to his hammering.

He had been imagining her voice again. Of course he had. His mind was roaming over broken promises, and he would not be allowed to forget. He never could forget trusts he had broken. Even though this had been something… small… he had not known her long. Yet, she had been so sincere with him and Ruivo had felt pained all the greater for it. He could almost smell her today. He could smell the forges burning hot; the coal; molten iron; the sweat of his brow… yet a trace of apples and honey on the breeze. Strange for the season.

When the smith turned back about without saying a word to the white clad maid, Celleth went slack jawed. Ruivo picked up the tongs and jammed another rod into the forge. Bending with one blackened hand upon his thigh as he stirred the coals.

“Ruivo,” Celleth snipped. “Morgoth's britches.”

“Hn?” the flame haired elf asked, as he turned back to his cousin from the forge. Celleth tilted her head, and Ruivo turned the rest of the way, sucking in his breath between his teeth as his eyes fell sudden on Mithiel. Ruivo's normally sedate self startled so that the metal tongs dropped from his hand and went clattering to the floor.

Pale and white was Mithiel in comparison to her surroundings; the soot stained floor which needed a good sweeping for the end of day upon them; the blazing fires. Most of the smiths in the forge had stopped to stare at someone who would enter the forge dressed in nothing but white. Standing before Ruivo; bearing the emblem of House Finarfin at her belt. Though she barely reached the height of his shoulders; she seemed to carry herself higher. Ruivo's hands were balled into fists at his sides, his brow still creased in surprise.

“Someone seems to be in trouble,” Celleth jested with a light laugh to Ruivo, then looking back toward Mithiel. “You've dirtied your hem, your Ladyship.” The smith maid twisted on the anvil, letting her legs hang down over either side, her hands on the cold metal between them, she leaned forward with her own streaked face eyeing her, trying to decide if she were a relative? Sister… certainly not?… Vellyn? Ruivo had not mentioned much of his past aside smithing skills to Celleth yet, as much as she had tried to pry.

Ruivo's fingernail scritched over the edge of scar beside his lip, leaving another black smear aside his mouth, then along his cheek as he pushed stray hairs off his damp face. “I apologize, my Lady,” Ruivo stated, avoiding her name, though he wished to say it. He wetted his lips against the heat of the room, unintentional, ice blue eye meeting her own grey-green.

“I doubt he wishes for a second chance; the way you speak, it it is no wonder he sailed from Balar to escape this. What in the infernos of Thangorodrim gives you the right to speak to him as such? Are the Vanyar now taking thralls of their own?” Celleth swung her leg back over the anvil and swiftly stood, making way toward Mithiel, towering some inches above the white clad maid.

“Ruivo, are you her thrall?” Celleth asked, twisting her head.

Ruivo shook his head, and sucked in a breath, ignoring the words of his cousin as his eye did not leave it's gaze upon Mithiel. It was truth she spoke, for he broke not one but two promises. She had right to be upset at him. Yet, here they were surrounded by fellow craftsmen, and her voice was rising as she went on that the whole of the forge could hear her with interest.

“This is no place to speak of it. Of any of this,” Ruivo said low and quiet, taking a step toward her, though the din of hammering metal and the flying of sparks had diminished. Mithiel's words had come in a stream; as a torrent like the sea waves, though Ruivo would say no more of it here at the forge; in front of all the eyes. He could see a look upon Mithiel's face that came as unfamiliar to him.

A dark haired young elf across the room was setting down his hammer and striding forth; tall was he, almost as tall as Ruivo, but only barely adult by elvish standards. Vercano his name. “What kind of gurgof descends on Sirion in a gown of white? Morgoth's enemies call him not by his former name, and you summon my sister bow before him?”

“Is she of house Finarfin?” another female voice drawled. “Or of the house of Angband? Ah,” the rusty haired lady came around her Celleth, who was her granddaughter. Niphrechil was dressed more a lady than the younger elleth, bearing a dress instead of breeches; though too was she garbed in the apron of the smiths, and wore soot upon her elbows. She eyed the white clad one. “The daughter of that courtier. Your Naneth was a pain upon the Helcaraxë. And you then a pain in her womb. If she could have forced me to build a covered litter and carry her over the grinding ice, I am certain she would have.”

Celleth frowned as Mithiel spoke to her. Too high to even look upon the one of which she was speaking. With a grin, the ellon Leptafinyo came from his place near the entry. “She is not here to engage in pleasantries,” he noted to Celleth, and his younger sister nearly growled as Mithiel rambled on.

“In sweetest of thought, I do ask the...lady?... What gives thee the right to speak for Ruivo. Do thou now have permission to speak for Ruivo? Last I recall he was quite articulate. Did thee cut out his tongue? Why not ask Ruivo what he wishes, ah I forget thou speak for him. Well then an answer is not required seeing as thou were not addressed. And I should just leave then, but yet I can not without Ruivo. I am afraid I came here seeking him and I will not leave without words with him.”

Ruivo was silent still as Mithiel chided Celleth, not that he had a moment to strike a word into the conversation; for there was no time given the dialogue between Mithiel and Celeth. He had never heard Mithiel speak in such manner. Never had he heard her speak with others truly… aside himself, for they had always met alone; in solitude. Her voice was smooth and sweet even as she had words with Celleth. Celleth, of course, he was used to hearing; day in and day out.

“I am the overseer of this forge; you're speaking to the one in charge, I'll take no commands from you, and I shall speak for whomever I wish. Daughter of Morgoth and the inbred trolls of Thangorodrim,” Celleth retorted with a his. She glanced toward Ruivo who was still speechless, drawing nearer the light haired elleth. “Do not tell me in my own forge who is addressed and who is not.

Ruivo had attempted to inject; finally giving his own words, though soon he was given way again between the two women.

“No, quite right. Speaking here is not the place. Here where thy mistress seems to speak for thee. Will thou ask leave of her. Or would that be improper for to borrow thine self for my own ends?”

“Mistress?” Celleth quipped with a smile, flicking her tongue against the back of her teeth, seeming amused at the accusation, she stepped around Ruivo and grasped hold of the sooty bicep of the flame haired smith; her fingertips pressing against his hot arm in firm hold.

“Is that what I am to you, Ruivo?” she grinned up at him, then flashed an eye of warning to the Vanyar priestess before her. “Am I your Mistress?

“I have no Mistress,” Ruivo pointed out. “Unless your meaning is the Mistress of the forge; of which my answer is yes, I must answer to her.” Yet there was no other recourse for his words to stray; for cousins upon cousins needed their input and Ruivo looked upon Mithiel with longing, even while she spoke against them.

“Careful when using the word gurgof. All Valar are to be feared and respected. This gurgof as thou would speak to name one as fair as I. Is of the kind that has been raised Vanya and follows the words of the Valar. Clearly. Summon. Tch, merely a reminder she should not take the names of the valar even the cursed names in vanity. Should I truly summon thy sister and thou self to bow before the graceful teachings of Eru and the Valar, should I enlighten thee as well with thy sister of the teachings? I think such education might be lost if I tried. Alas, I shall pray for both of thee.”

Vercano frowned, “You shall educate me on the ways of reverence to one who is corrupt; I should not listen.” He looked to his grandmother for approval.

“Hush, it is the way with Vanyar,” Niphrechil answered her young grandson. “They think themselves a leap above the rest of us for they dwell on the Holy Mountain of their minds.”

“Mother would be most pleased she struck such an impression to be remembered by. Always a lasting impression maker was she. Luck be for thee all, I am only a pain when ignored. Along with hearing Valar names taken in a vanity. Thee can thank Lord Cirdan for mine presence. He was most kind in telling me where I could track down Ruivo.”

Ruivo's hand tracked behind himself, pulling at the leather buckles of his work apron as she spoke. He was quite finished. Her laughter was reminding him of what he had been missing, and he wanted to hear her talk to him; and watch her dance, and feel her near. He should not have left. He should not have even considered breaking his promise to her; and to know that she had traveled a day across the sea to seek him when he had been cruel.

“Remember, I will,” Niphrechil rolled her eyes. “Manwë's rank breath on the ice cold winds of Helcaraxë, I was never sure who made her Queen of the Noldor. Your Adar was kind at least,” Niphrechil noted. “Though both foolish if they thought willing a child on the crossing as we fled when the light of the trees was gone from the sky was the best way to keep warm. It only gave your Naneth more room to complain. Foolish.”

One set of buckles undone he drew his hands behind for the rest, forcing Celleth's hand to fall fromm him. He needed to talk to Mithiel. They needed to speak for Ruivo felt unsettled at her proclamation of dwelling in Sirion, when Balar across the waters was safer. Balar was where she should be. He needed to apologize for his cousins, though she looked in no torment by their words. Her face seemed still light. His face was light; for her nearness, and everything seemed tossed to the side. No hammers were ringing now in the forge, for the interest was upon the two of them, though it was not passing either of their yes.

“I’ve missed seeing you Ruivo.”

The apron pulled over his head, he thrust it off, tossing it to Celleth, where it landed over the arm that had been grasping him. Celleth stiffened and dropped it; and the leather hit the floor in a clump.

“I take my leave,” Ruivo said to her briskly; though his eye did not part from Mithiel. He was going to see her for the rest of the day; if not longer. He would give her no more chance to miss him, nor would he miss her. She had come this far, and three months had been too long.

He licked his bottom lip, staring at the elleth, then Ruivo took a final step forward and caught Mithiel upon the shoulders; an expression of both raw desire and regret upon his face. He could not have waited another instant so fully was he drawn to her and relief began to creep through his limbs upon contact. “I've missed you too,” he murmured, his fingers gripping around the back of her shoulders, his thumbs brushing over her collarbone.

“Shouldn't wear white in the forge around Ruivo,” Niphrechil clucked. “Smith does not know how to keep his hands where they belong. Pity, that dress, I learned to wear dark colors around him when we were young.”

Ruivo's hands had drawn back at the words, looking now at the sootstained smudges on Mithiel's shoulders.

“Nienna's poison tears, Lady of forgotten Mercies and curses, take this melodramatic Vanyar from my sight. You cannot just leave, Ruivo; you're not through with your work,” Celeth prompted during the interruption, brushing between Mithiel and Ruivo to thrust the tongs back into his hand. “You're burning the iron.”

Ruivo turned sideways to look upon Celeth; a grimace to his face and went with this tongs to the fire as he fished beneath the coals for the rod that he had been preparing to set to link before Mithiel had interrupted. The heat of the forge was evaporating the beads of sweat which had gathered on his chest while he had worked beneath the leather apron.

“You ruined the link completely,” Celleth chided, following him as the blackened iron was set into the set the rod into the pritchel hole.

“It is only a rod of iron,” Niphrechil pointed out with a cheeky smirk. “No great loss; he has been hammering all the day, and who can expect Ruivo to focus on his work when he has another rod heating in the fire? He burns bright and fast though. The Vanyar should be careful. If he left you on Balar it was for a reason; though his lips are sweet he is choosy with who he takes for his lovers,” she grinned, pulling the tongs from her cousin's hand and grasping up the burned iron to toss into the bucket of discards.

Ruivo could feel a warmth unbidden above that of the forges growing over his cheeks; over the roan freckles of his nose, and all the way to the tips of his ears, and he flashed his eye toward Niphrechil. “Enough, cousin,” he bit; more harshly than he had intended. She may be the eldest among the cousins present, but Ruivo was of an age with her and refused her own disrespect.

“I must disagree, Ruivo knows his hands know exactly where they belong.”

Ruivo swallowed, but it was no lie. He could see starkly written upon Mithiel's face where she desired to be. Within his arms. He had seen it all the months upon Balar and had well restrained himself after his first slip, but it had not erased the way Mithiel still looked upon him. It could not erase the way he had felt for her despite his hesitation. Her fingers had brushed his cheek, and had brushed over his lip.

He knew well what she wanted, and what he could not give.

Ruivo could not bring to words his response, though he wished to seek her more. He was shuffled around by his cousins, all bickering with Mithiel over things of little importance. What was important… why she was here. She should not have come. Niphrechil and Celleth may be able to wield hot irons to protect themselves; but should the sons of Fëanor descend again upon the river mouths; should the servants of Morgoth, Mithiel could not be here.

Niphrechil had known him long ago, and yet she knew him still. Oh, but he had been perturbed to find that it was she who resided here; it was the forge of her son she worked in. Her comments of what they had been in long years past, which he felt were a dishonor to her dead husband's name; but only encouraging to Celleth now. The elleth who was smirking at him; and glaring at Mithiel.

“Ruivo will answer to me alone for why he left Balar. I am not afraid of fire his fire, I crossed the water to track him down. Hmm seems like I am not leaving and now everyone will hear your words...unless you do not mind a bit of rain Ruivo.”

“I have heard enough words within the forge to last the day, I will not be giving more to these stone walls with a multitude of ears. Only two ears here need hear why I left Balar.” He was speaking to Celleth, but looked down upon Mithiel, willing away the ruddy blush from his cheeks as best he could; though it lingered with the warmth of the room and he reached to touch her again. Just a finger he touched her with this time; a finger covered in soot brushed down from the tip of her left ear to it's base. He had desired to touch her in such a way for months, and temptation stole away his restraint, and the action was as much for himself, and for Mithiel, as it was for the sight of Celleth and Leptafinyo who stood watching.

“You know I enjoy storms as much as you, my Lady,” he muttered, this time to Mithiel. Her name was still hinged in his throat, and he could not speak it for the way his mind told him he deserved not to utter it; yet his mind and heart's desire stood in conflict. His finger trailed down her neck to her shoulder and stopped, at the neckline of her dress leaving a smear of soot along it's wake. “The rain will wash our skin,” he offered, as his hand shot suddenly to grasp Mithiel's his fingers rough, though easing softly between hers as they had many times before on the island. Perfectly fitted. His thumb wrapped around the back of her delicate hand. He felt their wrists bound as a tourniquet with cords of silver mist, and the relief at her touch was enough to settle his agitation. Ruivo began to lead her to the exit.

“What of tonight, Ruivo?” Celleth frowned, quickening her own steps to trail behind the two.

“What of it?” Ruivo asked in turn, not looking over his shoulder.

“You go now? Yet you told me before the end of day you would let me know. You had not denied my request to spend the eve with me,” Celleth pointed out, her brow furrowed. “How is it that you considered me today, after all this time?”

Ruivo shook his head as he looked at the arched doorway of the forges. The rain was falling gently beyond, though only had the fringes of the storm touched them, and he was sure before long it would fall in torrents.

Then he took a breath, looking down at Mithiel, and then finally turning to catch Celleth's eye. “If your quest of learning the jewel trade came merely as an honest interest in the craft I would have been much obliged to tutor you. Yet I know it does not, and Niphrechil has the same training and skill that I do. Perhaps moreso for she was not set back by warefare and injury. Ask after your Adar's Naneth.” His blue gaze shot to Niphrechil, who was smirking upon him.

“It is only because I am your cousin,” Celleth pouted, not denying her interest which went beyond tutoring.

“I had no curiosity even before I knew you were of Mahtan's relation,” Ruivo told her honestly.

Celleth went silent, as Ruivo started again toward the door, drawing Mithiel beside him. He could feel the mist of the rain before they even reached the exit, and once they had come into the storm it began to dampen his skin as a relief. Outside the forge, to the path, Ruivo's stopped in his tracks. The River Sirion was flowing beside them, and he could hear the waves crashing upon the sea as the thunder rumbled nearer.

Leptafinyo was flipping a knife in hand at the doorway to the forge, grinning, and Celleth barreled past him into the rain.

“Ruivo!” she called, but the flame haired elf had stopped on the river path, and was fully focused upon the elleth in front of him. His free hand had risen to stroke her cheek. Water was beginning to fall in grey droplets off his sooty hands, dripping onto the pure fabric of her dress bearing the symbol of House Finarfin. He dropped his hand from hers though it came only a second later to take up contact with her again, resting flat against the skin at the side of her neck. Skin which was uncovered. Skin he had never touched since the day he had worked to still the bleeding. He could feel the scar on her fragile skin beneath his fingertips.

“Now you shall have your words from me,” Ruivo told her, trying to rein in the desire that pulsed heavy in his blood. His body told him it had been too long. They should not have been apart so long. Yet still his mind told him to send her away.

“You are not moving back to Sirion. I will not have you here. You will cross the waters again and take the ship straight back to the Isle where it is safe for you. You should not have come here,” Ruivo muttered firmly, his voice soft, only a hum above the rain. His breath grew shallow as he traced over the line at her neck with his fingertips. Fully healed; yet still visible the markings. She felt warm, and beautiful beneath his fingers.

Restraint. He had restraint. He had used it with Mithiel on Balar. He had not chanced to kiss her again since the first they had watched Tilion rise together. He had not touched her like this there; yet he could not draw his fingers away from her neck, where they caressed over damp skin. “Forget me,” he whispered. “Go back to your Lord and Lady on Balar, and forget the Smith of Sirion. You are well now. You do not need me. Forget my promises. You do not know me. Promises from my lips mean nothing. You should know that by now,” he told her.

His fëa and hröa were calling out to her, yet his guilt ridden mind was telling her to reject her; to reject her seeking of him. Thus his words spoke in one way, yet his eyes sought her in another, and his hands sought her skin.